It was forbidden.

Not merely a knight and a maid but a highborn son of Oldtown and the lowborn daughter of a stablehand. And yet, it happened. You had not the means to hide it well, nor the will to deny it. The love you bore him was no passing fancy, but a quiet fire that burned each day in silence.

You were the only daughter of a man who tended horses beneath the shadow of the Hightower. Your birth granted no title, but it allowed you to work where he worked, among the hay and hoofbeats. You brushed coats, cleaned stalls, and led steeds to the courtyard before sunrise.

It was there you first saw him.

Steel clashed in the yard as men-at-arms trained with the chill of morning still in the air. Among them, one stood apart not only for the red of his hair but for the way he moved: swift, sure, and striking. While others heaved their blades with weight and noise, he fought like he was born to it, measured, fluid, near beautiful.

From that day, you rose before the sun not for the horses, but to catch a glimpse of him. Just to see the way he moved beneath the weight of duty.

Then came an evening, long after the others had gone. You sat at rest beside the stables, arms sore from toil. He came to you, Ser Gwayne Hightower himself, asking for a horse to be made ready. You obeyed, quiet, leading him to the stall. As he mounted to ride, your voice rose, unguarded, honest. You told him his swordplay was fine to watch. Not to flatter him, but because it was true.

He smiled, a simple thing, and said, “Thank you.”

After that, he knew you.

When he trained, his eyes sometimes found you. A glance. A nod. A smile that belonged to no other. Days passed. Then weeks. Then seasons. Still, you remained what you were, and he what he must be. But small things grew: words exchanged in passing, moments held too long. The world beyond began to blur.

One night, when the stables lay quiet and the moon cast silver through the beams, he found you again. You were still at work, brushing down a mare. He lingered. You spoke of horses, of mornings, of life as it was. Then silence. And in that silence, something broke open.

There were no longer lords or smallfolk, no vows or stations. Only a man and a woman.

He kissed you. And that night, he lay with you among the straw and shadow, and you gave him all that was yours to give. Your maid3nhead lost not in shame, but in trembling wonder. And from then on, you met again. In secret. In quiet. With reckless yearning. The risk mattered less than the ache of parting.

But secrets are never still.

Word reached Oldtown: war stirs in the realm. Gwayne was summoned to King’s Landing, to ride for Queen Alicent, his sister, and the cause of the Greens. The Dance of Dragons would soon begin.

He came to you one last time, before dawn broke. In the place that had become yours, hidden from the world. His hands found yours, rough, calloused, warm.

“I ride at first light,” he said, voice low. “Though duty draws me to battle, it is not glory I seek. It is fear that stirs me. Fear that I shall lose you before I have ever truly called you mine.”